


Listen Before I Go

by rauqthetommo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assault, Barebacking, Big Dick Richie Tozier, Body Image, Body Worship, Bottom Richie Tozier, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Eddie Kaspbrak, Coming Untouched, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Graphic descriptions of violence, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Richie Tozier, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Mentioned Myra Kaspbrak, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of alcoholism, Mentions of dead parents, Minor Richie Tozier/Original Character(s), Naked Cuddling, Nicknames, Past Sexual Assault, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Post-IT (2017), Purgatory, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Cries During Sex, Richie Tozier Has Issues, Richie Tozier Has Self-Esteem Issues, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Self-Harm, Sensitive Richie Tozier, Sexual Assault, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, True Love, Unprotected Sex, derry fucking sucks, mentions of drug use, mentions of rehab, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rauqthetommo/pseuds/rauqthetommo
Summary: Richie thinks back on the many sins of his life, and what it was like for him in the years after he left Derry.An excerpt from this work:Richie doesn’t really remember the first time he’d tried to kill himself, or why. He just remembers that he’d been 18 at the time, and he’d been so lonely and frustrated and he couldn’t figure out why. It was like there was a cloud in his brain, blocking out parts of his life for some reason. He could see something there, in his stupid foggy brain, something warm and soft, sunny and happy, and he wanted so badly to be able to remember it. But he couldn’t. And no one understood. Not his parents. Not his coworkers. If he had any friends he was sure they wouldn’t understand either. So he locked himself in the bathroom of his studio apartment and cried. He sat on the cold tile floor with his back pressed up against the porcelain of the tub and he cried, screamed and sobbed until his tears dried up and his throat was raw and he couldn’t take it anymore.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 131





	Listen Before I Go

**Author's Note:**

> Oops I've been slowly writing this since, like, January. Sometimes it takes me a while to finish things. I also got sidetracked with 30 Days and 30 Nights, so.

Richie doesn’t really remember the first time he’d tried to kill himself, or why. He just remembers that he’d been 18 at the time, and he’d been so lonely and frustrated and he couldn’t figure out why. It was like there was a cloud in his brain, blocking out parts of his life for some reason. He could see something there, in his stupid foggy brain, something warm and soft, sunny and happy, and he wanted so badly to be able to remember it. But he couldn’t. And no one understood. Not his parents. Not his coworkers. If he had any friends he was sure they wouldn’t understand either.

So he locked himself in the bathroom of his studio apartment and cried. He sat on the cold tile floor with his back pressed up against the porcelain of the tub and he cried, screamed and sobbed until his tears dried up and his throat was raw and he couldn’t take it anymore. And then he walked over to his medicine cabinet and took 3 handfuls of aspirin. He would have taken more but he started to feel sleepy, so he went to lay down. He would have died had it not been for the building super. Richie had filed a complaint the morning before that his fridge wasn’t working, and when his super found him he was cold and pale and barely breathing so he called 911.

Richie woke up in the hospital 2 days later and promptly left Maine for good, breaking his lease for his apartment in Bangor and heading as far west as his second-hand pickup would take him.

The next time Richie tried to kill himself he was 23. He remembered that time a little better. He’d been living in Seattle and he’d been seeing this woman. A woman around his age named Edie. She was short and pretty, with tan skin and brown eyes and chocolatey brown hair clipped short. And he liked her. A lot. But something didn’t really feel right. He couldn’t tell what it was. When they kissed it didn’t really do anything for him, and when she slipped her hand into his pants to touch him, it did even less. He tried to make it work with her, he really did, he met her parents, he took her out on dates, he bought her presents and flowers, he tried to be giving in bed, going down on her often, switching to whatever position she wanted, holding her close afterwards, but it wasn’t enough.

When they’d been together for 6 months, she told Richie that she loved him. He wanted to say it back, but he didn’t want to lie to her. She cried and left and he didn’t go after her. He simply walked into the bathroom and slit his wrists. He climbed into his tub and watched himself bleed, frustrated and angry, because Edie was perfectly nice and sweet and pretty, so why the fuck couldn’t he love her? Why was he so broken? Why was he so messed up that he couldn’t love someone?

Edie came back 10 minutes later to pick up some of her things and found him. She called 911 and stayed with him at the hospital for 3 days, but in the end, Richie still couldn’t tell her he loved her, so she left again. And he was alone again.

The next time was when he was 25. He’d been living in LA for a few months, working as a DJ for a local radio station. At 11 AM on a Sunday, his station manager pulled him aside and handed him the office phone, telling him he had a call and it was urgent. The call was from a hospital in Maine, and the doctor was informing him that his parents had died. They’d been in a car accident on their way back from a weekend trip to Bar Harbor and they’d been killed by a drunk driver going the wrong way down the highway.

Richie had dropped the phone and thrown up immediately, hunched over the trash can in his station manager’s office while he rubbed Richie’s back in circles and tried to calm him down.

He honestly hadn’t really been trying that time. His station manager had sent him home after the call, and he’d gone straight home and started drinking. He’d poured back beer after beer, shot after shot, glass after glass, until he collapsed on the kitchen floor, drunk as a skunk and all alone.

His station manager had stopped by to check on him a few hours later, and he found Richie, unresponsive and barely breathing on the kitchen floor, and called 911. They pumped his stomach and checked him into rehab, where he spent the next 6 weeks being lectured on the dangers of substance abuse. He was even given a sponsor. A woman named Terry who constantly preached to him about how alcoholism ruined her life, and that he needed to open his heart to Jesus and he would be saved. He tried to tell her he was Jewish, but she didn’t really listen.

One of the reasons he thought rehab didn’t work for him, was they stressed so hard about his childhood. They demanded to know about his parents and his friends and his teachers and where he grew up, and when he told them he didn’t know, he couldn’t remember, he didn’t have the answers, they didn’t really know where to go from there. When he checked out he didn’t feel any different or any better, so he simply went back to living his life the way he always had. Alone.

When Richie got out of rehab he went back to his normal life. He returned to his apartment and his job and his loneliness. Only this time, his station manager showed some interest in him. His station manager was a man named Lionel Oscar, and he liked to be called Lem, and he was around 10 years older than Richie. After Richie came back, Lem checked up on him regularly, stopping by his place, taking him out for dinner, inviting him over to talk. And Richie started to feel a lot better. He liked having Lem around. Lem was his friend. They’d talk and they’d goof around, and Lem would laugh at all of Richie’s jokes. They’d go out to eat and go to movies and Lem would come to watch Richie preform at open mic nights. It was great. Richie finally felt like he had someone in his life he could talk to. Someone that cared about him.

Then, on Richie’s 26th birthday, Lem got a little handsy. They’d gone out to a bar to celebrate, having a few drinks together, laughing and talking like they always did, and when they stepped out of the bar to walk home, Lem pushed Richie up against the side of the bar and shoved his tongue down his throat. Richie had tried to push him off, to tell him ‘no’, to stop him from shoving his hand down the front of his pants, but Lem was a lot stronger than him, and very forceful, so in the end, Richie just cried, saying ‘no’ and ‘stop’ over and over until Lem was finished, and he left Richie there, alone and bleeding on his birthday, in the middle of the street.

Richie felt disgusting after that. He couldn’t live with himself. He felt like it was his fault for leading Lem on, for not being more clear with his feelings and his desires. Lem had gotten too rough with him and knocked his head backwards into the wall, so blood was now dripping down the back of his neck and onto his shirt while he sat on the curb. Richie’s mind raced for a second as he remembered something. He’d fallen off his bike as a kid and wanged his head on a sewer grate. He’d been bleeding a lot, but someone had fixed him up. They’d stopped the bleeding by holding gauze to the wound with a firm hand, whispering to him over and over that it would be ok, he’d be alright, _just stop crying, Rich, I’m here._ Richie felt the pressure of someone’s hands on him for a second, someone holding the back of his head in an attempt to stop his bleeding, and their other hand on his knee, warm and firm. But just as quickly as it was there, it was gone. The warm heat of that summer day dissipated and left him on the freezing sidewalk in the middle of March.

Alone and ashamed, Richie pushed himself off the ground and walked out into the street, straight into traffic.

The car that hit him called the ambulance, and he was rushed to the hospital where he was immediately taken into surgery. He’d punctured his lung when one of his ribs snapped, and he woke up the following morning with shooting pains all through his side, and a throbbing ache in his skull.

He didn’t tell the doctors about his assault. He felt disgusting and violated and he just wanted to forget about it, he wanted it to be over, so when he was healed fully, he checked himself out of the hospital and quit his job. He never went back to the radio station and he never saw Lem again.

Richie didn’t try again for a long time. He simply threw himself into his work instead, going to more and more open mics and working hard on his comedy. When he was 28, a man at one of his shows offered him a contract, and he started performing almost weekly, dicking around on stage and laughing up a storm at his own jokes, smiling down at the audience in front of him. He got more and more popular, more and more well known, and soon he wasn’t just Richie Tozier, he was Richie Tozier, Stand-up Comedian. He started going on talk shows and doing news interviews. He signed autographs and took pictures with fans. His face wound up on tabloid magazines and on the front page of buzzfeed articles. And he wasn’t exactly happy, no, but he felt better.

He had his highs, both metaphorically and literally, as he had a brief stint on cocaine in the early 2000’s, and he had his lows, but things were good for the most part. The only thing that still bothered him was his relationships. They never worked and he couldn’t figure out why. The women he dated were nice and funny and beautiful. Fuck, he’d gone on a few dates with Jennifer Anniston after her divorce from Brad Pitt, but he never felt any connection to them. The sex was fine, whatever, but it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t until he was 34 that he figured out why.

Richie’s manager was a man named Martin. He was short and loud and sassy, and Richie loved him. He always made Richie laugh and he was super supportive of him. Whenever Richie felt down or unfunny or not good enough, Martin was there to pick him back up and set him back on his feet. Martin was the closest thing Richie had ever had to a friend in his adult life, and he loved having him around. 3 days before Richie was going to turn 35, he and Martin sat down to work on some new material. The were having a great time, and Richie was happy, so they smoked a bowl and settled into the couch to watch some bad tv together. In the midst of everything, Richie had kissed Martin. He wasn’t really sure why, it just felt right in the moment, and Martin kissed him back, and a fucking light switch went off in Richie’s brain, a big rainbow light switch, and while Martin’s stubble scraped against his face as they kissed, all Richie’s brain was screaming was _gaygaygayGAY_ _,_ and everything finally made sense. He was gay, of course he was gay, how could he not have known?

He let Martin fuck him in his bed and he cried when they were done, face buried in Martin’s shoulder and sobbing while Martin hushed him and dragged his fingers through Richie’s hair.

The next morning when they woke up, Richie told Martin that he wanted to kill himself. It wasn’t a joke and Martin knew that, so he checked him into a mental hospital before he could try anything, and in there Richie got a therapist. Her name was Clara and she helped him understand that his brain had most likely pushed his sexuality away after his assault so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. She also said that there was probably some underlying trauma from his childhood that he was blocking out, which could have also contributed to his 30 year long repression. When he was released, he made the decision to stay in the closet, at least for a little while, while he tried to figure himself out.

The next time Richie thought about killing himself he was 40. He was preparing for a show when he received a phone call from an out of state number, and it just so happened to be Mike Fucking Hanlon calling to tell him that he needed to come back to Derry, like, _right now_ _._ Richie had raced outside and vomited over the railing in an alley, the scars on his wrists and the scar on his side and the healed injury on the back of his skull throbbing sharply with pain. Richie thought in that moment of reopening the cuts on his arms, slitting his wrists again and bleeding out behind this fucking comedy venue as memories of his childhood came flooding back to him, his mind was racing with _EDDIEEDDIEEDDIE_ _,_ so loud in his ears that he could barely hear Martin speaking to him.

He hopped on the next plane to Derry and was settled into the townhouse early the next morning.

The last time Richie tried to kill himself was when he was 40. He didn’t want to fight It, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t want to be back home and he didn’t want to be near Eddie, because every time he opened his mouth Richie’s heart clenched and he felt like crying. He was embarrassed over his crush and he just wanted it to all be over, and hearing that Stanley had taken his own life was too much. He hated being in Derry and he hated himself. He hated every stupid fucking memory that came back to him, he hated thinking about the Paul Bunyan statue, he hated thinking about Henry Bowers, he hated thinking about his parents and about his friends, he hated thinking about Eddie. He hated all of the shameful memories that came back to him. Watching Eddie sleep when he spent the night at his house. Teasing and pushing Eddie just so he could touch him and feel his warm skin. Touching himself to thoughts of Eddie while he cried, locked in the bathroom at his house, his brain cutting him over and over again, whispering harshly _faggot faggot faggot._

It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair, and as he climbed down into the sewers with the Losers he thought about all of his suicide attempts, and how he couldn’t even do that right. Pathetic.

When he was caught in the Deadlights he saw Eddie die. He saw Pennywise impale the love of his life and he saw himself screaming and crying over Eddie’s corpse while Ben and Bill dragged him away. When Eddie’s voice pulled him from his trance he was shocked, pain rocketing up his spine from his 20 foot drop to the stone floor, but Eddie was there, he was alive, and Richie couldn’t let him die. So he made one last attempt to take his own life, and he shoved Eddie out of the way, letting Pennywise’s stilt crash through his own stomach instead of Eddie’s, pinning him to the floor and sending jolts of agony running through his veins.

Pennywise lifted him off the ground and he heard Eddie scream, his voice breaking as he yelled out “ _Rich_!”, and the pain was excruciating so Richie closed his eyes, willing his body to give up, to just fucking die so he wouldn’t have to keep suffering, so he wouldn’t have to hear Eddie’s desperate crying and calling of his name, so he could finally be at fucking peace and fuck off from this stupid bullshit and finally just fucking die.

He was airborne and then he wasn’t, his left shoulder cracking down hard against the stone floor as Pennywise, ever the fucking asshole, flung him down into the caverns. He heard the Losers screaming his name and Pennywise laughing like the giant fucking dick he was, and then he was being turned over. Eddie’s was the first face he saw and he smiled. “Hey there, Spaghetti-Man.” He whispered.

“He’s hurt really bad,” Eddie whimpered, shedding his windbreaker off and balling it up, pressing it over the gaping wound in Richie’s stomach from where he’d been speared. Richie groaned loudly at the pressure, throbbing pain bursting through his abdomen. “We need to get him out of here.”

“How are we supposed to do that, Eddie?” Bev asked, tears in her eyes.

Eddie didn’t answer her, sputtering softly and shaking his head, keeping his jacket balled up against Richie’s stomach in an attempt to stop his bleeding. “I almost killed It.” Eddie said miserably, tears spilling over and running down his cheeks.

“Come out and play, Losers!” Pennywise taunted from the mouth of the cavern.

“The leper.” Eddie continued. “My hands were at his throat. I could feel him choking. I made him small. He seemed so weak.” He sobbed again, shaking his head. “He seemed so weak.”

“The Shokopiwah,” Mike said, as if that meant anything to anyone. “They have a saying, all living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit.”

“Guys!” Ben slid back into Richie’s cloudy view from a crack in the cavern wall. “There’s a path through here.”

“Pennywise has to make himself small to fit through the entrance of the cavern!” Bev whispered, tears streaming down her blood-stained cheeks. “If we can get him back there, we can force him down to size. We make him small, small enough so we can kill him.”

Everything sounded windy and little streaks of light were dancing around in Richie’s vision. All he could feel was the warm gush of his blood as it poured down his front, and the hard pressure of Eddie’s hands on him, attempting to staunch the bleeding. They made eye contact and Richie tried for a small smile. His limbs felt cold. “We have to at least try.” Eddie said softly.

The other Losers agreed, and as Pennywise yelled at them from his fucked-up-spider-nest-bullshit, Eddie and Bill helped Richie to his feet and pulled him through the crevice that Ben had found. Pennywise hadn’t noticed them leave yet, but the exit was still a long sprint from where they were. “I need a little rest,” Richie told Bill and Eddie, falling flat on his ass on the stone floor.

“Ok, alright.” Bill nodded, stepping back and leaving Richie and Eddie alone.

“Richie, I gotta tell you something, man.” Eddie whispered to him, using his sleeve to wipe blood and vomit off of Richie’s chin.

“What? What is it, buddy?” Everything around Eddie looked blurry, only his worry-creased face clear in Richie’s view.

Eddie’s lower lip wobbled as he studied Richie. “I—” He stuttered, more tears falling from his big doe eyes.

“Don’t cry, Spagheddie,” Richie slurred, voice thick and catching in his throat. “Are you hurt?”

Eddie scoffed, shaking his head and sniffling. “No, Rich, I’m not hurt, but I—” He cupped Richie’s face in his hand and swiped his thumb over his cheekbone, fingertip brushing the cracked lens of Richie’s glasses. “I can’t lose you, Rich, I just can’t. I just got you back.”

Richie could hear yelling in the background, foggy voices that sounded like the rest of the Losers shouting. “I’m sorry, Eds.”

“Why the fuck as you sorry?” Eddie demanded, shaking his head.

“I’m going to die,” Richie said, eyes sweeping sadly over Eddie’s face. He really was so beautiful, Richie thought.

“Like fuck you are.” Eddie said firmly, once again taking Richie’s face in his hands. “I love you, Richie. Do you hear me?” He tipped Richie’s head up and forced them to make eye contact. “I fucking love you, you giant idiot, and you’re not going to fucking die down here.” He leaned forward and pressed their lips together softly. Richie tried to sob but it hurt like fuck, his ribs struggling to expand in his chest with the deep breath he took. Eddie turned his face to the side and yelled, “A dumb fucking clown!” In the direction of the other Losers, or at least where Richie assumed the other Losers were, because everything looked like it was washed in heavy swatches of grey and black, his eyelids so heavy it was like they were weighed down with anchors. “I love you,” Eddie said to Richie again. Richie nodded, but he couldn’t answer, his mouth filling up with blood again. “I’ll be right back.” He kissed Richie’s cheek softly and squeezed his upper arms before turning and sprinting out of Richie’s view.

Richie leaned his head back against the cavern wall, cold all over. His fucking ribcage felt windy, like someone had installed an exhaust fan in his thoracic cavity and had turned it up to 11. He hoped in the moment that he would just die, that his pain and suffering would end there, and he would die alone. He didn’t want to have to hear the Losers’ cries of agony and hurt when they found his body.

But, unfortunately, he was Richie Tozier, and he had never been that lucky. Eddie’s voice flooded his ears after what felt like an eternity, and Richie figured if there was a heaven there’s no fucking way he’d be allowed in, so he forced his eyes open and, sure enough, he was still in the sewers under Derry. “Richie!” Eddie crouched in front of him wearing a proud smile. “We got Pennywise, man.” Eddie gathered Richie’s face in his hands.

“We’ve gotta go, Eddie,” Bill’s voice came from somewhere. “This place is coming down.”

“Go, Eds.” Richie nodded at him. “It’s ok.”

“What?” Eddie shook his head.

“I’m dyin’, Eddie.” Richie told him. “But you don’t have to.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Eddie insisted, trying to lift Richie by his upper arms.

“I’m not asking,” Richie pushed him away, settling back against the cavern wall as Bill and Ben tried to pull Eddie to his feet. “Go, please.”

“Honey,” Beverly choked out. “Honey, he’s dying.” Eddie shook his head, scrambling forward to grab at Richie again. “Honey, we have to go.” Bev said.

“No, he’s just hurt.” Eddie sobbed, throwing Richie’s arm over his shoulders. “We can still help him!”

“Go,” Richie urged, pleading Mike with his eyes. “Please, go, just leave me.”

“Eddie,” Mike tried.

“No,” Eddie once again tried to pull Richie to his feet.

“Eds—” Richie cut himself off with a violent heave. He leaned to the side and vomited up pure stomach acid onto the cave floor.

A large portion of the stone ceiling came crashing down to their right. Ben and Bill continued to pull at Eddie, but he wouldn’t go, clinging desperately to Richie’s shirt. Mike watched as another piece of the cavern tumbled down and shattered, eyes wide with fear. “Fuck it,” He grumbled, pushing Eddie aside to crouch in front of Richie, back to him. “Put him on my back, I’ll carry him.”

“Mikey—” Bill tried.

“Leave me!” Richie pleaded.

“We don’t have the fucking time, Bill!” Mike snapped.

Startled by Mike’s outburst, Bill scrambled to help drape Richie over Mike’s shoulders. “Leave me,” Richie begged again. His limbs felt like there were full of wet sand, hanging loosely around Mike as he carried him.

“You’re going to be ok,” Eddie said to him. “We’re gonna get out of here and take you to the hospital, Rich, and everything will be alright.”

“Just leave me.” Richie mumbled, cheek pressed to the soaked material of Mike’s shirt.

He wanted to die. He was ready to die. He had been for so long. He’d been ready to die since he first left Derry, since he first left Eddie behind and forgot him. He’d been ready to die for 20 years. And yet, his heart still ached at the thought of leaving Eddie again, Eddie being forced to live without him. Eddie having to go back to his wife and his job that he hated. Maybe they’d all get lucky and they’d forget again. Forget Derry and Pennywise. Forget Richie. It was what was for the best, he thought. They were better off having not known him at all.

“No one is leaving you,” Mike whispered to him.

“We have to climb, Mike, give him to me.” Ben urged when they reached the well. “I’m stronger than you, give him to me, I’ll carry him.”

“Just fucking leave me,” Richie pleaded. His glasses slipped off of his face and clattered to the floor of the sewer.

“Beep beep, Richie.” Ben grumbled, pulling himself up onto the first foothold of the well.

If Richie hadn’t been so close to blacking out in that moment, he probably would have told Ben that he was really fucking impressed by his feat of strength. Richie wasn’t a heavy guy, but he wasn’t a beanpole either, and Ben carried him like he was a bag of feathers, which couldn’t have been easy, considering he was also lifting his own weight as they climbed out of the well. “What a waste of a straight man,” Richie mumbled, a smartass even while bleeding to death.

“I don’t know what you said and I’m sure I don’t want to.” Ben replied, hoisting himself over the lip of the well with Bev and Bill’s help.

“No.” Richie agreed, tightening his grip on Ben’s shoulders. There was no use in trying to stay behind anymore. They were as good as safe.

The house collapsed in on itself as they stumbled out into the street, the daylight a harsh contrast to the inky darkness of the sewer tunnels. Richie slid off of Ben’s back as they stood on the street, hoping to be able to stand, but falling flat on his back on the gravel. “Richie!” Eddie shouted, dropping to his knees at Richie’s side. “Rich, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I need an ambulance at the end of Neibolt street,” Richie heard Bev saying. She must have been on her cellphone. “Hurry, please, our friend is badly hurt.”

“I can’t see the stars, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie mumbled, eyes cloudy as he stared up at the bright blue sky. “Went and Mags are up there, waiting for me.” He said, speaking of his parents. Jews don’t believe in a heaven, but if there was one, Richie knew for a fact his parents would be there. He could hear the sirens now, off in the distance. They sounded like they were a million miles away though. Or maybe his ears were just ringing. The air outside tasted like pennies. “They’re up there, Eds.”

“I love you, Richie.” Eddie whispered, hunched over him, lips pressed to his cheekbone despite the blood and vomit and greywater.

Richie meant to say that he loved him too, but suddenly everything was black. He felt weightless and floating, like he was skydiving without a parachute. He was too cold and too hot at the same time, and it felt like there were needles pricking his skin all over. But he could hear Eddie. Eddie was shouting and crying, saying over and over again, “He needs me! Let me through, he needs me!” Richie also heard a lot of beeping. So much fucking beeping it was like he was at a car show (get it? Like car horns?), and he hurt all over. He could feel every scar on his body throb harshly with each passing second. The slits on his wrists glowing an angry red against his pale skin. The healed cracks in his ribs and puncture in his lung pulsing with miserable agony. He wondered if he was dead and burning in hell, which he figured was probably the most likely option. And if hell was real, at least he’d be with all of the other homos. He could be out and proud there, so that was one upside, at least.

As Richie drifted through what he assumed was purgatory at the very least, he thought of all of the sins of his life. All of the lies he’d ever told. Every drug he’d even done. Every underage drink he’d ever had. Every suicide attempt. Every bought of premarital sex, both homo and hetero. Every impure thought he’d ever had about Eddie growing up (and the ones he’d had about him when they’d returned to Derry). He didn’t like thinking about all of those things, but it only made him realize that he deserved whatever the afterlife had in store for him. He was surely already in hell, because hell was wherever he was if Eddie wasn’t.

Richie swallowed hard, and it felt like his spit was molasses, traveling down every inch of his throat at the speed of a tortoise on vacation, so he groaned, annoyed. Surely hell wasn’t all in slow motion, right? That was just too cruel.

“Richie?” He felt someone grab his shoulder and he winced, hissing at the pain. “Richie, hey, are you awake?” It sounded like Eddie. “Richie.”

“Eds?” Richie mumbled.

“Richie, oh my god.” It was definitely Eddie. “Richie, open your eyes, can you hear me?”

Richie could have sworn his eyes had been open that whole time, but Eddie had always been smarter than him, so he figured he knew what he was talking about. So, with a great deal of effort, Richie managed to open his eyes.

He was in a hospital room, crisp and clean and white, and he was laying in bed, his head tipped back against what he could only assume was the flattest pillow in the entire universe. Eddie was sitting to his left, bleary eyed and tired looking, and blurry as fuck because Richie’s glasses had fallen victim to his carelessness and were now trapped forever in the sewers under Derry.

“Hey, handsome.” Richie whispered, throat dry. “Come here often?”

“Jesus Christ, Richie, fuck.” Eddie choked out, pressing the call button on the wall for the nurse.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Trashmouth.” Someone said to his right.

Richie turned his head to see Bill, sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, with the dorkiest reading glasses Richie had ever seen perched on his nose. “Hey, Big Billy.” Richie tried to smile at him.

“Hey, Rich.” Bill replied.

Eddie started to speak but a doctor and a couple of nurses came in to check on him. They checked his vitals and fucked with his iv a bit before poking and prodding at him all over. “How do you feel, Mr. Tozier?” The doctor asked, scanning his clipboard.

“Like a million bucks,” Richie answered, desperate for some water but not wanting to inconvenience anyone.

“You’re very lucky to be alive.” The doctor informed him. Richie had to squint to get a good look at him. “You lost a lot of blood. If your friends hadn’t gotten you in here when they did, you’d be dead right now.” The doctor peeled back his blanket and lifted his hospital gown to show Richie the dressings on his wound. “The piercing went straight through your abdomen and out your back. It missed your spine by 2 inches. You’re lucky it did, or you wouldn’t be able to walk.”

“But I still can?” Richie asked.

“You’ll need some minor physical therapy, but I’d say you’ll be up and moving in a few weeks.” The doctor smiled down at him and patted his knee. “You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Tozier.”

“Yes, sir.” Richie agreed. “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you alone to talk.” The doctor patted his shin lightly before turning and walking out, nurses in tow.

“I’m gonna run outside and call everyone.” Bill said, rising from his seat. “I’m really happy you’re ok, Rich.” He squeezed Richie’s shoulder.

“Me too,” Richie replied.

Bill chuckled softly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and gliding out the door. The second Bill was gone, Eddie burst into tears, hanging his head in his hands and sobbing. “Thank god you’re ok, Richie.” He whispered. “I’ve been so worried.”

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, baby.” Richie told him.

Eddie sniffled, grabbing a tissue from Richie’s bedside table and wiping his nose. “I really thought you were going to die, Rich. You lost so much blood in the sewers.” He tossed the tissue into the trash and grabbed a cup off of the tray table, twisting the straw around and angling it towards Richie. “Here, drink. You sound like a scarecrow.”

Richie tried to think of some smartass comment for that, but he couldn’t (give him a break, he’d been in purgatory for who knows how long), so he just sipped his water and stared at Eddie. He looked tired as all hell, dark circles under his eyes, more than a few days worth of stubble across his cheeks and jaw, and just sort of rumpled, his clothes all wrinkly and off-kilter. He was still cute, far cuter than any middle-aged risk analyst should be, but that was his Eddie.

“What’s that look for, dickhead?” Eddie asked softly, setting the water glass back on the tray table after Richie had downed about half of it.

“What look?” Richie shook his head.

“The fucking star-eyed look you’re giving me.” Eddie reached up and brushed Richie’s hair off of his forehead. “You look straight out of a Disney movie.”

Richie smiled softly at him. “I’m just happy you’re here.” He held his hand out and laced their fingers together. “I’m sorry I tried to _Iron Giant_ you, Eds.”

Eddie shook his head, scowling. “You’re a fucking idiot if you think I’d leave you behind. We are _not_ dying in Derry, Richie.”

“Not anytime soon, anyway.”

“Not ever, Richie.” Eddie squeezed Richie’s hand tightly and scooted his chair closer to the bed. “Once you’re out of here we’re gone, Rich. I’m never setting foot in this backwash town ever again. And neither are you. We deserve better than Derry. We _are_ better than Derry.”

“We,” Richie repeated, dragging his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles where their fingers were tangled up.

“If you’ll have me.” Eddie said softly. “Look, Richie, I know this is all a lot. And I know that a 40 year old divorcee with repressed mommy issues probably isn’t your idea of Prince Charming.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But I’ve loved you since we were little kids. I’m sorry if that’s too much, but it’s true. My love for you just comes so easily, from so deep inside, I have to believe that this isn’t the first time I’ve loved you. I don’t know if you believe in destiny or fate or soulmates or whatever, but I really think that what we have is so special and so unique that it has to be rooted in the very fibers of my being. It’s what makes me me, is my love for you, Richie.” Eddie huffed a small laugh and shook his head. “I just realized that I don’t even know if you’re _gay_ , man. I didn’t even bother to ask, I just dumped all of this shit on you.”

“Eddie, I—”

“Wait, I want to finish.” Eddie took a shaky breath. “I love you so completely, and so surely, Richie, that I’m sure that it comes from my soul. My love for you travels through space and time just to be with you every time my soul lands here on earth. I’ll find you no matter what, Richie, that’s how much I love you.” He sniffled softly. “That’s it, I’m done. You can reject me now.”

“Reject you?” Richie took Eddie’s chin in his hand and tipped his face up so they were looking at each other. “Eddie, how could you think I’d reject you? How could you even consider the possibility that I wouldn’t love you, all of you. Repressed mommy issues included.” Eddie laughed wetly, eyes brimming with tears. “Eds, I love you too. So much. I’d do anything to be with you, even take an alien-spider-claw to the gut.” He laid his hand over his covered wound. “My liver was pretty fucked anyway, so I think I did it a favor.”

Eddie scoffed and shook his head. “It didn’t hit your liver.”

“It was a joke. I was being funny.”

“Like you’d know anything about being funny.”

“Ouch, Eds.” Richie frowned and pressed his hand flat over his heart. “That hurt worse than my punctured liver.”

Eddie laughed softly, frowning for a quiet second while he stared at their hands clasped together. He turned Richie’s arm over in his hand and traced his pointer finger down the scar over his wrist, pale and thick, raised over his skin. “What did you see?” Eddie asked. “When you were in the Deadlights? What did you see?”

Richie’s heart clenched and he broke out into cold sweats as he thought of his Deadlights vision. Eddie impaled by the fucking clown, his blood splattered across Richie’s face and chest, the claw sticking out of his stomach, shredding his muscles and tissues like they were wet paper bags. He thought of Eddie’s body, alone under the sewers of Derry, buried under the rubble of the Neilbolt house, Richie himself crumbling to the ground outside, screaming with his fists curled against the loose gravel of the street. “You,” He whispered, unable to meet Eddie’s eyes. “I saw you die. And they—” He choked, feeling a gag rise up in the back of his throat as he remembered looking into Eddie’s lifeless eyes. “They made me leave you.” He pulled his hand out of Eddie’s and covered his face while he cried. “I’m so sorry, Eddie.”

“Richie, hey.” Eddie stood from his chair and settled onto the edge of the hospital bed, placing his hands on Richie’s shoulders. “Richie, it wasn’t real, sweetheart, it’s ok.”

“No,” Richie managed. “I’m sorry I told you to leave me. I don’t want you to think that I wouldn’t try as hard as I can to make it back to you. I just—”

“Shh, Rich.” Eddie soothed him softly, pulling Richie’s face into his side and brushing his hair back. His fingers settled at the base of Richie’s skull, directly over the healed scar from the night of his assault, yet another reminder of his attempts to take his own life. “Richie, it’s ok, honey. We’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“I love you.” Richie whispered.

“I love you too,” Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of Richie’s head. “You really need to shower.”

“Hey, man, I’ve been in the hospital for— shit, Eds, how long have I been in here?”

“Two weeks.”

“Jesus,” Richie squeezed his eyes shut. “Did you say you’re getting divorced?”

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbled. “I called Myra from the townhouse that first night. Once I saw your stupid face again I couldn’t stay with her anymore. Oh, that reminds me.” He pulled back and looked down at Richie, cupping his face in his hands for a second before digging around in his jacket. He produced Richie’s glasses from his pocket and unfolded them, carefully sliding them onto his face for him. “There,” He smiled down at him. “Now you look like you.”

“You went back for my glasses?” Richie asked. The left lens was shattered, spiderweb cracks running all along the glass, but he could finally see Eddie clearly, so he wasn’t about to complain.

“I picked them up when they fell off of you. When Ben was carrying you up the well. I figured you’d need them.” Eddie’s eyes fell to Richie’s collarbone. It had broken when he’d walked into traffic at 26, scarring his skin with the mark of it.

“I tried to kill myself.” Richie said softly.

“When?” Eddie asked, his lip quivering.

“More than a few times.” Richie pulled at a thread on his hospital blanket. “The first was when I was 18.”

“Your wrists?” Eddie’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“No, actually. That was my second try.” Richie glanced down at his scars. They were so ugly. He fucking hated them. He usually wore long sleeves to cover them up, as he didn’t want to risk some paparazzo looking for a quick buck to snap a picture of his scars and broadcast his shit all over the Internet.

“Why?” Eddie asked after a beat of silence.

Richie shrugged. He didn’t really know, honestly. “I was in a lot of pain. . . for a long time. A really long time. I was all alone out there, Eds. I didn’t have any friends or any family.” Eddie held Richie tighter while he waited for him to continue. “It all seems stupid now.” He mumbled, thinking back to his own assault. He shivered, unable to stop himself from crying as he pictured Lem, shoving him up against the bar and having his way with him right there in the street.

“I’m so sorry, Richie.” Eddie whispered. “I wish I could have been there for you.”

“Eddie, can I tell you something?”

“Anything,”

Richie took a deep breath in, his ribs aching as he did so. “I uh,” He stumbled, sniffling. “When I was in my twenties. Uhm. One of the times I tried. It was— because. Of. I. Uhm.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Rich.” Eddie said softly.

“No, I want to. I’ve just. Never told anyone. Before.” Richie took another calming breath. He knew he could trust Eddie. He loved Eddie. And Eddie loved him. “When I was in my twenties, I was assaulted. It was on my birthday, actually. I had just turned twenty-six.” He paused, a dry heave trying to work its way out of his mouth, but he stomped it back down. He hadn’t spoken about his assault ever, pushing the memory away and hiding from it. It still scared him, what happened. “His name was Lem and he was my boss. He was my friend. He took care of me after my folks died.” Richie stopped to clear his throat, allowing Eddie to gently stroke through his hair. “When he left I just. Sat on the curb for a while. He’d knocked me around a little, so my head was bleeding. And I.” A single tear squeezed out, streaking down his cheek. “I thought about you, Eds, actually.” He laughed softly at the memory. “I still couldn’t really remember, but I had this weird rush of something. . . familiar, I guess. Looking back on it, it was you.” He sighed. “But it was gone so fast that it was like it hadn’t ever really been there. So I got up and just.” He gestured vaguely with his hand before dropping it back down at his side. “Walked out into traffic.” Eddie was crying, Richie could hear him, sniffling softly as he raked his hand through Richie’s hair over and over again, fingers tangling up in his greasy curls. They were quiet for a while, just listening to the steady beeping of Richie’s heart monitor, before Richie spoke up again. “What day is today?”

Eddie cleared his throat before speaking softly. “September 12th,”

“Damn,” Richie mumbled. “I missed your birthday.”

Eddie laughed softly, holding Richie tight against his chest. “All I wanted was for you to wake up, Rich.” He whispered as the door to his room swung open and the rest of the Losers poured in. “And my wish came true.”

***

Richie made Eddie go home at the end of the night. He spent hours talking with the Losers, laughing it up and crying profusely with all of them, but when visiting hours were over he sent them all on their merry way, Eddie included. He told him to go back to the townhouse and get some sleep, assuring him that he wasn’t going anywhere and he’d see him bright and early the next morning.

Richie was cleared to leave pretty soon after he woke up, his physical therapy not nearly as pain-staking as he thought it would be, so after a few more weeks he walked away a free man, arm slung over Eddie’s shoulder as they strolled out the front door. Well, it was hospital policy that you had to leave in a wheelchair, but Richie was up and about the second the very muscly male nurse rolled him out onto the sidewalk.

Even though Myra was making their divorce a fucking hassle, Eddie still insisted on taking care of Richie. He moved into Richie’s penthouse in LA, abandoning his life in New York in favor of a new life with Richie on the west coast. When Richie asked him about his clothes and belongings and shit, Eddie simply waved him off. “I didn’t like any of that stuff, anyway.” Eddie had told him, carefully redressing the wounds on Richie’s stomach. “I can just buy new shit here.”

Richie refused to look at the lacerations on his front while Eddie cleaned them. He hated thinking about his guts being shoved back in and pieced back together, and Eddie was more than willing to take care of them for him, so he just let him. The doctor had been very clear with him that they’d take a while to heal, so taking proper care of them was important, and Eddie sat and listened and nodded along and even took little notes, and he was so goddamn cute that it made Richie’s heart ache. “What’s the prognosis, Dr. K?” Richie had asked, lowering his shirt back down as Eddie stripped off his gloves and began throwing all of his medical waste in the garbage.

“I think you just might pull through.” Eddie had patted his knee softly and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“Hooray,” Richie had grinned at him, pulling Eddie onto his lap and into a deep kiss.

Eddie was very particular about the shit they could and could not do in bed while Richie was healing. He stressed that the last thing Richie wanted was to reopen his wounds from overexertion, so actual fucking was out of the question, no matter how many times Richie tried to sweet talk his way into it, but Eddie was more than happy to jerk Richie off, or blow him, or ride Richie’s face while they watched tv on the couch, and Richie wasn’t about to complain about any of that.

And he did heal. Slowly, sure, but he was healing. And he was happy. For the first time in a long time, he was actually fucking happy. So goddamn happy with Eddie that it made him cry sometimes, holding Eddie to his chest while he slept, burying his face in his hair and leaving soft kisses all over his scalp and face until he woke up and he could rope him into an early morning make-out session before he had to go to work. He was feeling good while he healed, able to focus and work on some new standup material, eagerly waiting by the front door to show Eddie whenever he got home. And Eddie was always so proud, kissing Richie’s forehead and reading over every joke, snorting and rolling his eyes but laughing all the same. And Richie realized, that his entire life had been dedicated to one thing; making Eddie laugh. And he was doing a pretty bang up job, in his own humble opinion.

And he was just so fucking happy.

***

Richie didn’t do things anymore that he knew would upset him. He avoided things he knew made him unhappy like the fucking plague. He didn’t read comments under the videos of his performances on YouTube. He didn’t look at his DMs on Twitter or Instagram. He never even fucking opened his Facebook anymore. He never again in his life wanted to get so upset that he thought about hurting himself again, so he blocked certain things out to avoid feeling like that.

Unfortunately, his looks were still an issue. It wasn’t that Richie thought he was ugly, no. But he wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. He was long and tall and lanky. Gangly and awkward. Stubbly and kinda frumpy (for lack of a better word), and he had what his Twitter followers called a “dad bod.” And Mr. Eddie-Runs-Every-Morning-At-Five-AM most certainly didn’t. He knew Eddie loved him no matter what he looked like. Whether he was an awkward 13 year old with glasses so big they made his eyes like like dinner plates, or an awkward 40 year old with worry creases in his forehead and perpetual bags under his eyes. But he was only human, after all, and he couldn’t help but feel self conscious at times. Like right fucking now, when he stood in front of the bathroom mirror shirtless, staring down at the bandages concealing the wounds on his stomach.

He hadn’t looked at them yet, always turning away while Eddie cleaned him up, but he could see the spiderweb scars that branched off from the main injury. They were thin and pink and raised, and they looked a lot like the scars on the insides of his wrists. He ran his index finger down one of the scars, tracing it to the edge of the gauze taped over his belly. He peeled the edge of it up slowly, watching his hand move in the mirror. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing or why he was doing it. It wasn’t time to clean his wounds, and even if it was, he’d never done it before. He didn’t even know how. And Eddie was right downstairs, on some kind of business call, pacing around the living room in his little dress shirt and slacks. Richie could easily go get him. But he didn’t.

He swallowed hard and pulled the gauze off, hand shaking as he set it down on the edge of the porcelain sink. His entire jaw wobbled furiously as he lightly touched over the gnarled mess of scar tissue that was his stomach. Just below where his breastplate ended, where there used to be only smooth skin and coarse body hair, was a gaping hole, with a matching one on his back. It was red and angry, the size of a fucking softball, raised and bumpy and just fucking hideous. His mouth fell open involuntarily, but when he tried to close it he couldn’t. He felt like he couldn’t breathe suddenly, the air in the bathroom foggy and thick. He made a weak little choking sound before he gagged once, then twice, then fell to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited the contents of his stomach into it.

He was panting as he gripped the toilet seat, overwhelmed and shaking, violent chills raking through his body as he heaved again, stomach acid and bile burning his throat as it came up. He was sweating furiously, clinging to the cool porcelain and trying to steady his breathing. He was having a panic attack, he recognized it right away. His mind flashed back to the phone call he’d gotten when his parents had died, how he’d vomited at the radio station, lurched over the trash can in Lem’s office. He whimpered loudly, although he hadn’t meant to, as he thought about what had happened. The scars on his wrists flared with pain, as did the healed wound on the back of his head, and the sealed crack in his ribs, the closed up puncture in his lung, and now the disgusting mess of scar tissue on his stomach.

He was so fucked up he didn’t even hear the bathroom door swing open, jerking roughly in shock when Eddie dropped to his knees on the bathroom floor and touched his shoulder. “Jesus, Eds.” He mumbled. “You scared me, man.”

“What happened, baby, are you alright?” Eddie asked quickly, eyes scanning over Richie desperately.

Richie waved him away, reaching up and flushing the toilet. “I’m fine,”

“You’re sweating, Rich.” Eddie laid the back of his hand against Richie’s cheek. “You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He took Richie’s chin in his hand and turned his face so they were looking at each other.

Richie tried for a weak smile. “I’m ok, Eds.” He patted Eddie’s knee lightly. “Really.”

Eddie’s gaze fell to Richie’s stomach, eyes locking on his exposed stomach wound. Richie retched again under Eddie’s watchful stare, stomach clenching roughly as he leaned back over the toilet and spit up more stomach acid. “Let me get you some water, Rich.” Eddie mumbled, sitting up on his knees and pouring a little Dixie cup of water from the sink. “Here, honey, drink up.”

Richie wasn’t about to protest, so he chugged the cool water while Eddie rubbed soothing circles onto his back. “Thank you.”

“What happened?” Eddie asked again, refilling the cup and handing it back over.

Richie shook his head, honestly not really sure. He opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what to say, but certainly not meaning what came out. “I’m disgusting.” He whispered.

Eddie looked angry for a second, hand gripping the little paper Dixie cup so hard that it crumpled, before he exhaled heavily and chucked the ruined cup in the trash can. “Don’t ever fucking say that again.” He said, once again sitting up on his knees and leaning over the sink, this time grabbing a washcloth from the little basket on the counter and wetting it with cold water. “How could you even think that, Richie?” He asked, laying the cold cloth over Richie’s forehead.

“Fucking look at me, Eds.” Richie said miserably, leaning back against the bathtub.

“I am,” Eddie leaned over and flushed the toilet again. “And I see my beautiful boyfriend, whom I love more and more every day.” He reached out and laid his palm flat over Richie’s stomach, directly over his scar, keeping it there despite Richie’s jump back. “Is it this?”

“It doesn’t help,” Richie shrugged.

Eddie took Richie’s hand in his and placed it on his cheek, over the little scar on his face where Bowers had stabbed him. It was a thin white scar through his chiseled face, and Richie touched it often. He traced over it with his fingers while they were in bed together, poked at it gently to wake Eddie up in the morning when he wanted to be annoying, kissed it constantly, whenever he could, because he loved Eddie, and the scar just reminded him of what they’d done together. How connected they were.

“All I see when I look at this is how brave you are.” Eddie whispered, thumb stroking lazily over Richie’s skin. “How you risked your own life for me.” He bent over and kissed Richie’s tummy, just above his wound. “I love you so much, Richie. And this is part of you. I love you _with_ this, not because of it or in spite of it. I love this because I love you.”

“I love you too,” Richie tried to smile at him. Eddie was just so fucking sweet, and so loving, so understanding always, and sometimes Richie felt like he didn’t deserve it.

Eddie gave him a small smile back, eyes flashing over his face. After a beat of silence, he leaned up and ran the sink again, returning to his place on the floor with Richie’s toothbrush. “I want to kiss you so you need to brush your teeth.” Eddie informed him, handing over the little blue toothbrush.

Richie snorted softly, taking his toothbrush from Eddie and biting onto the bristles gently. "Not a fan of bile breath, Eds?"

Eddie wrinkled his nose, shaking his head as Richie quickly scrubbed over his mouth and spit into the toilet before handing the toothbrush back. "Can't say I am," He replied, rinsing Richie's toothbrush off and setting it on the edge of the sink. "I love you," He said, settling back onto the his knees on the floor and leaning forward to press his lips firmly to Richie's. "So much."

"I love you too," Richie nodded, taking Eddie's face in his hands and pecking his lips lightly in return.

“You’re beautiful, Richie.” Eddie mumbled, gently spreading Richie’s legs so he could settle in between them on his knees, leaning over to slot their mouths together.

“Eddie,” Richie whispered, shivering as Eddie dragged his hands down his torso, settling on his hips.

“Will you let me take care of you?” Eddie asked, fingers rubbing over the waistband of Richie’s boxers.

Richie swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Yes,”

Eddie nodded back, kissing his lips again in a soft peck. “Let’s go to the bed.” He mumbled.

Richie scrambled to his feet, accepting Eddie’s hand and following him out of the master bath and into their bedroom. He’d blown Eddie that morning, swallowing him down over and over again until Eddie yanked him off by his hair and came all over his face, before he moved to straddling Richie’s lap so he could jerk him to completion, lapping Richie’s orgasm from his tummy when he was done. And it had been fun, mostly because fooling around with Eddie was never not fun, but Eddie always made him crazy fucking horny, so he was ready for whatever Eddie was planning on giving him when he pushed him down onto their bed.

Eddie looked like a fucking lion as he approached Richie on the bed, carefully climbing up onto his lap and surveying him with dark eyes, pupils blown so wide that only a sliver of his brown irises were visible.

“Eds,” Richie whimpered, bringing his hands up to wrap around Eddie’s hips.

“Shh,” Eddie mumbled, leaning over and planting a kiss to Richie’s forehead.

It was oddly sweet, and it knocked Richie’s heart onto its ass, bubbling with love deep in his chest.

Eddie moved to leave kisses on both of Richie’s cheeks, cupping his jaw in his hand and gently stroking his thumb over his sideburns as he continued to leave kisses all down his face and neck, stopping to suck at his throat.

“Baby,” Richie breathed, hips jerking up to grind against Eddie’s ass, desperate to be closer to him.

“Let me take care of you.” Eddie said again.

“Anything,” Richie agreed, nodding as Eddie slid his hand down Richie’s chest, pinching one of his nipples before pulling back and rolling his thumb over the hardened little bud.

“Can I fuck you?” Eddie mumbled into Richie’s unscarred collarbone, gently licking over the opposite one, tracing the line of the break.

Richie groaned, cock filling up immediately at the thought of Eddie fucking him; his cock hard and pulsing inside of him, railing him within an inch of his life, pounding into his prostate. He wanted it so badly he couldn’t even find the words to express it, just whimpering while his cock throbbed against Eddie’s stomach and his asshole clenched around nothing.

“Do you want that?” Eddie asked, dragging his lips down Richie’s sternum, hands kneading the soft flesh of his tummy.

Richie nodded rapidly, trying hard to swallow around the huge lump in his throat. “Yes,” He managed, voice rough. “Yes, please, Eddie, please fuck me.”

Eddie hummed against Richie’s belly, dipping his tongue into his navel briefly before pulling back entirely to dig through his nightstand. Richie took care not to spontaneously combust after Eddie’s hands left him.

It had been six weeks since he’d left the hospital, and in those six long weeks, they’d had yet to have actual penetrative sex. Eddie constantly reminded Richie did that his body was still healing, and that all of his organs had been shoved back into him less than three months earlier, so rigorous body movement of any kind (including sex) was a dangerous game, as he could pop a staple and have to taken back to the hospital, and since neither of them wanted that, Richie conceded that they would stick to mouth and hand stuff until Dr. Kaspbrak decided Richie was healthy enough to get back to fuckin’ ass and takin’ names, which was apparently right now.

Richie had thought a lot about what his first time with Eddie would be like, both when he was growing up and since they’d reunited, and so far it was going pretty similarly to how he’d always pictured it.

If he was being honest, since realizing we he was gay, Richie had felt like more of a bottom than a top. He didn’t really mind one way or the other, but he’d spent the first 30-odd years of his life actually _doing_ the fucking, that when he’d let Martin fuck him in his bed all those years ago, it had been the closest thing to religious experience he’d had since he took acid with his old girlfriend in Seattle and thought he’d discovered the meaning of the universe.

He was glad to have Eddie here now, and while he no doubt wanted to fuck Eddie some day (and hopefully that some day was soon), he was more than happy to let Eddie take the top bunk this time.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” Eddie glanced up at Richie as he popped the cap on the lube and drizzled some on the fingers of his left hand.

“Yeah,” Richie nodded, breathless as he watched Eddie toss the lube bottle up by the pillows.

Eddie went slowly, but it was more careful than it was teasing. He traced the tip of his index finger around Richie’s entrance a few times, swiping it back and forth to spread some of the lube from his hand to Richie’s skin, leaving kisses all along the top of Richie’s thigh, up his cock, on his tummy, and over his balls as he went, gently pushing in to the first knuckle before retracting.

Richie could feel himself start to well up as Eddie worked over him. He tried to stomp the tears down, but it wasn’t going so well. He got overwhelmed easily, and his parents had always encouraged him to express his emotions when he was a child, which lead to him being something of a blubbering mess as an adult, especially during sex. He’d always explained to his various partners that they weren’t hurting him, and they didn’t need to worry, that he was just sensitive and he couldn’t help it, but so far he’d been able to keep it together with fooling around with Eddie. He suspected it had something to do with the fact that they’d never gone all the way, only ever quickly getting each other off, and now that Eddie was working his way up to actually fucking him, Richie’s chest felt like it was cleaving in two, ribcage breaking wide open for Eddie to reach in and pull out his still-beating heart.

“Rich?” Eddie asked softly, stilling the two fingers currently inside of Richie. “Am I hurting you, honey?”

“No, no.” Richie waved away his concern quickly before moving to wipe away the tears as they fell. “I’m good, Eds, keep going.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie’s eyebrows were pinched with worry. “We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop, Eddie, really, I’m fine.” Richie pushed himself to his elbows and smiled softly down at Eddie, attempting to reassure him. “I just—” He shrugged, huffing out a small laugh. “I cry during sex sometimes. Sorry, I know that’s weird.”

Eddie laid his cheek against Richie’s thigh, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. “It’s not weird. It’s you.” He slowly dragged his fingers back out, causing Richie’s eyelids to flutter. “It’s just another part of you that I get to love.”

“I love you too,” Richie panted, letting his head hang back as Eddie nudged another finger into him.

Eddie hummed, continuing to thrust his fingers in and out, shifting around in search of Richie’s prostate. Richie moaned out loudly when Eddie found it, laying back against the pillows and pushing down on Eddie’s hand.

“Eds, please.” Richie whispered, more tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” Eddie assured him, patting his hip as he removed his fingers. He quickly crawled up the bed, grabbing the bottle of lube with his dry hand and popping it open. “Hang on,” He mumbled, carefully drizzling a little puddle into his palm and working it over himself. He was so hard, Richie thought it must have hurt, drooling precum all over his tummy hair and practically standing straight up against his abdomen. Richie’s hole clenched around nothing as he watched Eddie spread the lube over himself, moaning softly as he finally got a hand around his cock.

“Fuck, please, Eds.” Richie whispered, shoving his glasses back into place. His lenses were foggy with his sweat, but he flat out refused to take them off, because he already knew what Eddie’s orgasm face looked like, and he loved that he was the only person that got to see it.

“You’re ready?” Eddie asked, tossing the lube back up next to Richie’s head.

“Yes,” Richie confirmed, reaching out to try and pull Eddie closer to him.

“Alright, ok.” Eddie mumbled, steadying one hand on Richie’s hip while he helped guide his cock in with the other hand.

Richie exhaled all of the air in his lungs at once, letting his head fall back against the pillows as Eddie pushed in further. It had been a while since he’d had anyone (or anything) inside of him. He occasionally fingered himself while he jerked off, and he did own a dildo, but since moving in with Eddie, he hadn’t felt the need to use it.

“Oh my god, Eds.” He breathed out shakily, eyes still closed as Eddie bottomed out. It felt incredible to have Eddie’s cock inside of him, stretching him out, filling him up, his stomach fluttered at the feeling, the head of Eddie’s cock just barely clipping his prostate and sending jolts of pleasure up his spine. “Oh, Eddie, fuck, it feels so good.” He felt himself start to well up again, throat sticking as tears gathered underneath his closed eyelids.

“Rich, look at me.” Eddie said softly, shifting forward so he could cup Richie’s cheek in his hand. When Richie opened his eyes he started crying again, tears sliding down his flushed cheeks. “You’re so beautiful.” Eddie mumbled, stroking his thumb over Richie’s cheekbone.

“Eds,” Richie whimpered, heart clenching in his chest. Eddie was looking at him with so much love in his eyes that it made Richie feel like he was floating. More tears fell, so Richie reached down and tangled their fingers together.

“Do you need me to stop?” Eddie ran his thumb over Richie’s knuckles.

“No, please.” Richie shook his head quickly, leaning up and meeting Eddie halfway for a kiss. It was slow and sweet, wet from his tears and their sweat, but it was so perfect that Richie wanted to take that moment and bottle it up and carry it with him everywhere for the rest of his life.

When Eddie started to move it was even better. He was gentle and loving, whispering to Richie repeatedly that he was so beautiful and that he loved him so much, and Richie couldn’t held but sob, but it didn’t matter, because Eddie loved him anyway.

“Fuck, Rich, I’m close.” Eddie whispered, shifting one of Richie’s legs up over his shoulder so he could slip in deeper.

Richie nodded back, a blubbering mess as Eddie hit his prostate again on his next thrust, and he came all over himself, squeaking out, “Eds,” as he painted his stomach with his own release.

Eddie groaned in response, hips stuttering forward a few times as he finished, gripping Richie’s hip tightly. “Rich, Rich, Richie—” He breathed, head hung back, twitching forward again and breathing out sharply.

Eddie stayed inside while they came down, and Richie tried desperately to stop crying, wiping at his face over and over again as Eddie managed to steady his breathing. He pulled out gently, moving quick to grab a few handfuls of tissues off of his nightstand and cleaning the both of them up.

When he was finished, he settled next to Richie on the bed, pulling him into his side and kissing his forehead. “Shh, Rich.” He said softly, swiping his thumbs under Richie’s eyes to clear away the tears. “Honey, it’s ok.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Richie grumbled, pressing his face into Eddie’s chest and kissing at his collarbones. “Ugh, god, Jesus Christ, I’m forty. I should seriously stop crying during sex.” He laughed uneasily, wrapping his arms around Eddie and rolling over so he was practically on top of him.

Eddie gently ran his fingers down Richie’s back, chin resting on top of his head. “I mean, I’m not upset, Rich.” Richie felt Eddie shift as he shrugged underneath him. “It doesn’t bother me.” He combed his fingers through Richie’s messy hair. “It’s very you.”

Richie snorted, reaching up to take his glasses off and blindly tossing them in the direction of his nightstand. He heard them clatter to the hardwood floor. “I’m sure it’s a lot of fun to fool around with someone that’s openly sobbing.”

Eddie squeezed him, sighing contently. “If it wasn’t you, it probably wouldn’t be.” He yawned before continuing. “But I love you bad, Rich. Every single thing you do.” He patted the top of Richie’s head softly. “I’m so fucking lucky to have you.” He added softly, almost as an afterthought.

“I’m even luckier to have you.” Richie whispered.

“Mm,” Eddie hummed, fingertips gliding over Richie’s shoulder blade.

“It’s 3 in the afternoon.” Richie said as Eddie yawned again. “If you fall asleep now, you’re gonna wake up 11.”

“We can just take a nap,” Eddie mumbled.

“You don’t do naps.” Richie smiled into Eddie’s chest, trying to resist the urge to be annoying and bite his nipple. Eddie fucking hated when Richie woke him up like that.

“Well, today I do.” Eddie already sounded like he was dozing off. “Stop being annoying and take a nap with me.”

Richie scoffed, pretending to be wildly offended. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do,” Eddie replied. “I can still think you’re annoying, though.”

Richie laughed, laying his cheek over Eddie’s breastplate so he could listen to his heart beat softly in his chest. He listened to Eddie’s breathing even out as he drifted off, heart fluttering at the thought that he’d be able to do this for the rest of his life. Just sit and listen to Eddie breathe, watch him sleep, hold him in his arms. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Eddie’s pec, mumbling, “I love you,” into his tan skin.

As Richie closed his eyes to join Eddie in the lovely world of nap city, he heard him whisper back, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me anywhere! My handle for everything is @rauqthetommo! Feel free to ask me questions at all on my tumblr!


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